The Lie Changes To Fit
by PurpleYin
Summary: What Sherlock does changes everyone in some way. For Molly, she finds it is much harder now to sort the good from the bad when the truth isn't simple and harmless anymore.


**Spoilers:** up to end of S2.

**A/N:** Written for Sherlock_remix 2013 challenge, remixing the fic "Truth Is Always Relative" by lady_ganesh (on archiveofourown, works / 350649). Betaread by exbex.

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Molly has never liked lying, partly due to her track record of ineptitude at it. Her dad could spot any small inconsistency, even if he didn't mention it half the time, but she'd see his expression change, taking on a glimmer of his gotcha look. She knew it wasn't the facts she got wrong, plus she was careful not to over explain her fabrications. _Technically_ she lied well, purely with her words, but what caught her out was that he just knew her that well; he could read her face like she read his. No one has ever known her as well as he did; she can never quite let anyone in close enough these days. She rationalises her isolation with her lack of time, the ungodly hours she works, the disturbing profession she has and the interference of Sherlock. She almost welcomes it; it all adds up to a path she's chosen, one that results in a type of loneliness she accepts. Regardless of why, it's what makes her nearly perfect this time round. Her skills at lying haven't improved much at all, it's more that the people around her expect one particular thing from her and they fit what she shows them into that mould because they don't know any better.

She'd obviously always thought, like pretty much everyone else, that white lies are fine. Small lies to spare someone's feelings were okay. Like telling her best friend in secondary school she looked alright in leopard print leggings for the disco, or, much later in life giving gritted teeth thanks to relatives for their thoughtful gifts of 'How to Deal With the Slow Disease That is Grief' and other books filled with useless platitudes that did nothing for her. She lied because they meant well, they had good intentions and a hope she couldn't bear to extinguish.

It's a good enough justification then that the current lie – set of lies, the kind that spiral into multiples to support the initial one – are sparing lives, though not feelings. It makes it easier to force the words out of her mouth despite the clench in her heart. She stays strong because she has to, because somehow this lie is improving the world, long-term at least. It keeps John safe and Greg safe and dear Mrs Hudson safe. That makes it easier to do, but it is still hard to accept because there she is, waiting for the penny to drop and everything is silent. The hopeful payoff is overdue, straining her resolve. The words could be by now incidentally true and sometimes they sound to her like a horrible confession of what she is afraid of. But she does get better at lying, if only because she doesn't recognise what the truth is these days.

When Irene appears in her flat, asking curiously, "You were a friend of his?" she nods. It feels like maybe the sentence could be correct if she twisted the meaning into him being a friend of hers instead. Close enough to the truth is getting to the point where she thinks it _ought_ to amount to the truth.

When Sherlock returns, he first flits his eyes over her desk, scanning the contents for a brief visual update instead of simply enquiring like most people she knows. But then he is focusing on her suddenly with narrowed eyes, actually asking something, "You're friends with Adler now?" so she nods. The nod is preceded by a disjointed stammering attempt to confirm vocally and accompanied by a blush, just like she used to fall foul of in his presence. As he accepts the affirmation she thinks it a triumph he doesn't mention anything more of this change, that sticks out like the incongruous object attached to her mobile phone – a dangling minuscule safe charm Irene provided the night before with little explanation, but which Molly knows is designed to taunt Sherlock somehow. There is no quip to catch her in the omission. He's content to read 'friends' as the truth and not also the foundation of something else entirely.

Molly has learnt, after not so much practice but dissecting the sheer volumes of lies she's spoken/heard/known about in the time since she last saw Sherlock, that the magnitude of lies told varies greatly regardless of the intent. Some larger lies don't matter really, in a different way to little lies or the stonking great big white lies. Some softer lies are thrown out there inconsequentially, a disguise that blends all that is into showing a little of what is, and the acceptance of them can reveal another world you didn't see yourself. His acceptance confirms what she's always known and wanted to deny for the sake of her prior infatuation, he doesn't care enough to look further on this, with her, at her. She counts herself lucky that others do. 'My friend' is the greeting she almost purrs to Irene later as she answers her phone, and she means it in that moment.


End file.
